and roused the bloodthirsty instinct of the two Scots, who at once began to throw stones at it with murderous intent.  We watched the battle as the squirrel jumped from branch to branch and passed from one tree to another until it reached one of rather large dimensions.  At this stage our friends’ ammunition, which they had gathered hastily from the road, became exhausted, and we saw the squirrel looking at them from behind the trunk of the tree as they went to gather another supply.  Before they were again ready for action the squirrel disappeared.  We were pleased that it escaped, for our companions were good shots.  They explained to us that squirrels were difficult animals to kill with a stone, unless they were hit under the throat.  Stone-throwing was quite a common practice for country boys in Scotland, and many of them became so expert that they could hit small objects at a considerable distance.  We were fairly good hands at it ourselves.  It was rather a cruel sport, but loose stones were always plentiful on the roads—­for the surfaces were not rolled, as in later years—­and small animals, such as dogs and cats and all kinds of birds, were tempting targets.  Dogs were the greatest sufferers, as they were more aggressive on the roads, and as my brother had once been bitten by one it was woe to the dog that came within his reach.  Such was the accuracy acquired in the art of stone-throwing at these animals, that even stooping down in the road and pretending to lift a stone often caused the most savage dog to retreat quickly.  We parted from the two Scots without asking them to finish their story of Glencoe, as the details were already fixed in our memories.  They told us our road skirted a moor which extended for forty-seven miles or nearly as far as Glasgow, but we did not see much of the moor as we travelled in a different direction.

[Illustration:  “JOUGS” AT A CHURCH, PEEBLESSHIRE.]

We passed through Edleston, where the church was dedicated to St. Mungo, reminding us of Mungo Park, the famous African traveller, and, strangely enough, it appeared we were not far away from where he was born.  In the churchyard here was a tombstone to the memory of four ministers named Robertson, who followed each other in a direct line extending to 160 years.  There was also to be seen the ancient “Jougs,” or iron rings in which the necks of criminals were enclosed and fastened to a wall or post or tree.  About three miles before reaching Peebles we came to the Mansion of Cringletie, the residence of the Wolfe-Murray family.  The name of Wolfe had been adopted because one of the Murrays greatly distinguished himself at the Battle of Quebec, and on the lawn in front of the house was a cannon on which the following words had been engraved: